


We're Not Meant To Be Alone

by Alitomy



Series: nile and booker [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker has done nothing wrong, Booker who needs to get his shit together, Booker x Nile friendship plzzz, Booker | Sebastien le Livre Needs Therapy, But also, Gen, Here we have Booker, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Poor depressed Booker, This author supports Booker rights!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25650898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alitomy/pseuds/Alitomy
Summary: Booker has nothing but his thoughts to get him through his exile.
Series: nile and booker [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893658
Comments: 12
Kudos: 224





	We're Not Meant To Be Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!  
> Thought I'd join TOG party with a fic! I haven't written nor posted anything in nearly 4 years, so please be kind :-)

Residing in Paris was a safe bet, being the largest city in France. The streets were always bustling with people and tourists were around every corner, trying to find the city’s secrets, so it was easy enough for him to slip in and out of view from any peering eyes. He knew they would ask Copley to watch over him, like some sort of twisted guardian angel watching from above. 

Booker scoffed to himself as he slipped into his apartment building, giving a small salute to the camera in the hallway knowing, just knowing, that Copley will see it. Fumbling with his keys he pushed the door open, juggling the paper bags of groceries and alcohol, arguably taking more care with the heavy bottles that were held a bit closer and tighter to his chest. Toeing the door shut he dropped the bags onto his rickety kitchen table and fished out one of the many bottles of cheap whiskey before sinking into the recliner that was ripped and frayed from years and years of use.

Not bothering to get a glass, Booker popped the cork and took a swig, letting the drink sit in his mouth for a second before swallowing down the golden liquid. God, he was pathetic. Not even a month into his one hundred year exile and here he was, surviving on a liquid diet of cheap alcohol and microwavable foods from the supermarket. 

_‘Nicky and Joe would murder me if they found out what I was eating,’_ he thought to himself, snorting. _‘Better add that to the list of ‘reasons to murder Booker’.’_

He sat in the recliner until the shadows in his apartment got bigger and the world outside got darker, the nightlife of Paris beginning to wake with sounds of music and glasses clinking from the bar, the laughter of children as their parents chased them to get them into bed, the soft music filtering through the thin walls from his neighbours whom he rarely saw, but knew all about nonetheless.

Booker closed his eyes as he swallowed another mouthful, both listening and blocking out all the sounds surrounding him. His only movement for the days to follow had already been planned out for him. He would drink and drink and drink, slouched in his recliner until his bladder was about to burst and his stomach wouldn’t stop trembling. He would then drag himself out of the chair, use the bathroom without so much of a glance in the mirror, cook his dismal microwave meal, and sit back down in his chair. Sometimes he’ll turn on the television and watch whatever football game is currently live, not thinking about how Joe would normally be watching right alongside him, his sketchbook drooping out of his hands as the game got more intense. 

He tried to not think about the others, knowing they would be fine without him. Even if he wasn’t fine without them. 

Guess he should have thought about that when he agreed to sell them all out to Merrick, who insisted on taking all of them and not just the only willing participant. 

“Genetic abnormalities will be a make or break in this discovery. Merrick needs all of you to get enough data and hopefully crack the code and help millions of people. Maybe, even yourself.” 

God, he was such an idiot. He was naive to think that Merrick would take samples then let them go, just as Copley made him believe. But he was so deep in his depressive state after all these years, he said yes. Something, _anything_ , that could increase his chances of finally getting to die. 

He’d do anything. 

~

Three months into his exile, a package shows up at his door. He doesn’t notice the knocking at the door, rather letting the postman think no one was home. Sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over and cradling a glass of alcohol, hair long enough to sway in his eyes as he moved.

It’s hours later when Booker’s leaving his apartment for more alcohol that he sees the package. He eyes it suspiciously, and wonders if he should take it to a remote place to open in case it was a bomb, not wanting to destroy the hallway and surrounding apartments. 

“Merde,” he swears and picks up the package, bringing it inside and opening it. The surrounding apartments be damned if this thing blows up, and maybe he won’t be alive for the aftermath. 

A ringing noise startles him as he folds the flaps of the box open, only to find a burner phone that’s ringing incredibly loud. Before he could contemplate too much on whether or not to answer the phone, he does. 

The silence on the other end is deafening. Booker took a few quiet, deep breaths to steady his thoughts before he bit the bullet. 

“Hello?” 

“Booker,” a sigh of relief came through the line. “Hey.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Nile. Do the others know that you’re calling? It’s barely been four months-”

“They don’t know. At least I haven’t told them, but they probably know,” the young voice says, then goes quiet. “I miss you, Booker.” 

“Nile..” Booker sighed. He’d known the new immortal for all of a week before things went to shit, yet somehow they had managed to form a bond strong enough that Nile was willing to break the ‘no contact’ park of his exile. Realising he’d been quiet for too long, he whispered, “I miss you too. How are things?” 

He listens to her ramble on about training with Andy, reading old literature with Nicky, and Joe teaching her how to wield a sword. “For fun,” Joe had told her. Booker’s lips curved up as Nile recounted how many times she had sliced a deep gash on herself, or when she got lucky, Joe. 

Booker didn’t want to think about Andy, now mortal, teaching Nile how to spar with as many techniques as she could remember. He didn’t want to think about how she would have just finished healing from the bullet wound _he gave her_. Christ, he was too sober to think about her, and how he’ll never see her again. It was arguably the worst part of his exile. 

His thoughts drifted to the other two immortals; the unbreakable force that was Joe and Nicky. He thought about how they would be bickering over the correct amounts of spice in tonight’s dinner, or whom of their past lovers was the best in bed, or who could make the best poetic speech about each other before the other dragged them to the bedroom. 

He knew it would be Joe. It’s always Joe. 

He missed Nicky’s wise words telling him to _‘not fucking do that, Book’_ before Booker could blow himself up while messing with explosives. He missed Joe yelling at the television with him over a football game that held little yet immense meaning to both of them, or when he’d find pages ripped out of Joe’s sketchbook left laying on his pillow, the subject of the drawings were him in his most vulnerable moments.

Fuck. 

Fuck, he missed them. 

“Booker? Are you still there?” Nile’s voice filtered through the phone, shaking him out of his thoughts about his family. 

“Yeah Nile, I’m still here,” he replied, rubbing his free hand over his face, unsurprised at the wetness that transferred to his fingers. “I’m glad they’re looking after you.” 

“I really wish you were here. The others are great, don’t get me wrong, but-”

“They don’t understand what it’s like to lose everything,” Booker filled in. He vividly remembers their chat in the caves when Joe and Nicky had been kidnapped, no thanks to him. Andy had told him to convince Nile that a clean break from her family was the best thing to do, to not follow in his footsteps. A decision that has haunted him for two centuries. 

“Yeah,” Nile breathes out. “Can I- Can I come visit you?” 

A startled laugh spills over his lips as he registers the words. “Nile, one hundred years of exile. You’re not supposed to even be calling me. Joe would have a fit if he found out who’s on the other end of your line.” 

“I don’t care what Joe thinks, or Nicky, or Andy. I _wanted_ to call you. They might be centuries older than me but they don’t control who I talk to.” 

_‘God bless this woman,’_ Booker thinks to himself. “One hundred years alone, Nile..”

He hears a scoff on the other end of the phone, then a soft whisper. 

“Yeah, well, we’re not meant to be alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> hashtag Booker rights!!!!!!
> 
> check me out on tumblr: alit0my


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